


The Greatest Weasley

by Blazinghand



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Bullying, Drama, For Want of a Nail, Gen, Non-Canon House, Slytherin, Slytherin Ron, Sorting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blazinghand/pseuds/Blazinghand
Summary: "You could be great, you know." Ron always dreamed of making his mark, of stepping out from the shadow of his older brothers. Brave, yes. Loyal, sure. But Ron's deepest desires showed another trait, oft forgotten: a hunger for greatness.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The massive man—who from his brothers’ descriptions Ron knew could only be Hagrid—knocked three times on the castle door. Immediately following the third knock, the door swung open, revealing a bespectacled dark-haired witch wearing a brilliant green dress and a black pointed hat.

As Hagrid and the professor exchanged words, Ron gazed in awe at the massive Entrance Hall of Hogwarts. It was the biggest room he had ever seen, big enough you might fit the Burrow inside it. Its columns and walls were lit by flaming torches and floating candles. The flickering flames cast light onto dozens of portraits and tapestries, their denizens crowding into the frames to gawk at the new first-years. Professor McGonagall led them across the Entrance Hall to a small side-room. As he and Harry crowded in, Ron could sense the nervous tension in the room.  
  
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seat in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses…”  
  
Sorting, thought Ron. He’d heard many stories, of course, from his brothers. Percy had told him it was nothing to be worried about, but Fred talked about troll wrestling, before giving him one of those grins. That probably meant he was joking, but you could never tell with Fred. Ron had learned at a young age to recognize that grin, and what it likely meant about his food, or socks, or teddy bear. Bill and Charlie were both overseas, and Dad had just smiled and said he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.  
  
If Dad wasn’t worried about it, it couldn’t be that bad, thought Ron. And if all his brothers had made it through the Sorting Ceremony before, he’d find a way to do it, too.  
  
“...I shall return when we are ready for you,” concluded Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”  
  
She left the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” asked Harry.  
  
“Some sort of test, I think,” Ron replied. “Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”  
  
The initial bout of whispering that sprang up just as Professor McGonagall left had simmered down to an uneasy rumble of shuffling feet and sniffles, punctuated by Hermione Granger, who was reciting passages from the textbooks to herself. The nervousness of the other first-years pushed at Ron, and he felt the urge to practice a spell like Granger. As if sensing his plan, Scabbers twitched nervously in Ron’s pocket.  
  
“Don’t worry about me, Scabbers,” he whispered. “I—”  
  
Ron was interrupted as several people screamed. He looked up and gasped as about twenty ghosts came gliding into the room, passing through the wall behind him, floating overhead and ignoring the first-years. One of them addressed them directly.  
  
“New students!” said the portly ghost in monk’s robes. “About to be sorted, I suppose?”  
  
Ron considered asking the ghost about the ceremony, but said nothing.  
  
“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” he said. “My old house, you know.”  
  
“Move along now,” said Professor McGonagall from the doorway. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about the start.”  
  
At her bidding, the ghosts floating past, passing through walls and leaving the room.  
  
“Now, form a line,” she said, “and follow me.”  
  
Ron lined up behind Harry and they walked out of the room, across the Entrance Hall, and through a pair of high, broad double doors into the Great Hall.  
  
The Entrance Hall had been the biggest room Ron had seen, right up until he walked into the Great Hall. Where the Entrance Hall had a hundred floating flames, the Great Hall had thousands—torches decked the walls and pillars, and countless candles floated overhead like stars in the night sky. Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, with students of all ages sitting at them. Ron saw Percy close to his end of the table on the right—the Gryffindor table, then—and suppressed an urge to wave at his brother. He soon saw Fred and George sitting close by. There, he thought. There’s where I will go.  
  
McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first-years, and set a pointed wizard’s hat atop it. It was the oldest, rattiest, most patched wizard’s hat Ron had ever seen, fraying along the brim and falling apart. After a moment of silence, a rip formed near the brim, opened wide, and the hat began to sing. Relief flushed through Ron like cold water as he realized that the only test involved in the Sorting Ceremony would be trying on a hat. That, he could do! He shouldn’t have let Fred get to him about the troll. What a ridiculous idea, who would expect first-years to interact with a troll?  
  
_“—Or Slytherin may be_  
_The proving ground for you,_  
_Those cunning folk seek glory,_  
_Fame, and greatness too._  
_So put me on! Don’t be afraid!_  
_And don’t get in a flap!_  
_You’re in safe hands (though I have none)_  
_For I’m a Thinking Cap!”_  
  
Ron clapped along with the other first-years as the song ended. The hat bowed and became silent again.  
  
“So we’ve just got to try on a hat!” Ron whispered to Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll!”  
  
Harry smiled back, but still looked worried.  
  
“When I call your name,” announced Professor McGonagall, “you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.”  
  
She looked down at the long roll of parchment in her hands, before calling out, “Abbott, Hannah!”  
  
One by one, Professor McGonagall called out the names of students, who sat under the hat. Each time, after a delay, the hat shouted the name of a house. Sometimes, the hat decided quickly. Other times, it seemed to take a long time to make its decision. When Hermione Granger was sorted into Gryffindor after quite a long time under the hat, Ron groaned. Spending every year with her would be insufferable. He watched as Malfoy, that slimy git, was sorted into Slytherin. Harry’s sorting took a long time, just like Granger’s, but he was sorted into Gryffindor as well, to thunderous applause. Ron clapped and cheered loudly, glad he’d be in the same house as his friend.  
  
One by one, the first-years were sorted until only Ron and one other remained. Despite everything, Ron still felt nervous. All this waiting was getting to him, he decided. At this point he’d likely go for wrestling that troll if it was still an option!  
  
“Weasley, Ronald!”  
  
Ron stepped forward, sat down, and closed his eyes as the hat’s brim fell over his face.  
  
“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Plenty of courage, yes, and more than enough brashness, as I might expect from you Weasleys. Not much of a drive for academics, but a talent for making friends… and a need to prove yourself, I see, to come out from under your brothers’ shadows. So, where shall I sort you?”  
  
Ron tensed up. Did it want a reply? He thought, “I want to go to Gryffindor, with Percy and Fred and George and Harry.”  
  
“Gryffindor, eh? You’d fit the mold well enough. You’re brave and you’d do well there, with your brothers and your friend for support. Maybe that’s what would be most comfortable for you. But would it be what you _want_?”  
  
What was this hat going on about? “Yes, I want to be in Gryffindor, of course!”  
  
“You want more than that, Mr. Weasley. You could be great, you know. It’s all right here in your head. You could be famous. Prefect, Captain of the Quidditch team, Head Boy… all of these things will be impossible for you in Gryffindor. Yes, I can see it here, Slytherin’s what you desire…”  
  
Ron was keenly aware how long his Sorting was taking, but something about what the Hat said struck true. He had dreamed of winning awards, of being famous, of beating his brothers at _something_. And yet… “couldn’t I do that in Gryffindor?”  
  
The hat pressed on. “You want to make your mark, to be the greatest Weasley brother. Bill is a legend, Charlie wrangles Dragons, Percy is perfect, and Fred and George are loveable scamps. What room is there in Gryffindor to do that? I’ve already sorted Harry Potter there, the most famous boy in your generation, and quite the Quidditch ace if he’s anything like his dad.”  
  
He _did_ want to be famous. Ron thought for a moment. “Slytherin, though…”  
  
“Even if you were free of your brother’s reputations, you’d never step out from under Harry’s. Not in Gryffindor. But Slytherin… Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that.”  
  
The hat made sense. Ron had always been overshadowed by his brothers. And in Slytherin, he could have what he always wanted, he could stand alone, the best of all of them… but not in Gryffindor.  
  
“I see your mind’s made up. Well then, better be SLYTHERIN!”  
  
Ron heard the hat shout the last word to the whole Hall. His heart skipped a beat. No—he hadn’t made up his mind at all! The hat was completely unresponsive, so after a moment, Ron stood shakily, took the hat off his head, and set it on the stool. Turning to the House tables, he was stunned to realize no one was clapping. Instead the Hall was awash with whispers.  
  
“A Weasley—”  
  
“—never in Slytherin—”  
  
“—the wrong sort, I told—”  
  
“I thought they were—”  
  
“How could—”  
  
Ron felt rooted to the floor, the hot sting of tears rushing up behind his eyes. What was happening? Then, after a moment, he heard a single pair of hands begin clapping, and turned to see Percy at the Gryffindor table clapping with a smile on his face. Relief washed over him. Percy nodded at him, then nodded towards the Slytherin table with his chin. Ron turned to look at his new housemates, who looked right back at him. He summoned up his courage—the Gryffindor courage the hat said he had—and began walking towards the Slytherins. Harry, next to Percy, started clapping as well. Fred and George joined in, and the Slytherin table began to cheer as well as Ron walked up shakily. He sat down opposite a dark-haired girl, and a hand clapped Ron on the back as he grinned weakly. The applause died down as Professor McGonagall called the next—and last—name off the list.  
  
There was no mistaking it now: Ron Weasley was Sorted into Slytherin, away from his friend and his brothers, in a house full of snakes.  
  
And the world would never be the same.


	2. The First night

As the last student, “Zabini, Blaise,” was sorted into Slytherin, Ron took a look at the High Table. A dozen grown-ups sat there, and he mentally placed the ones his brothers had told him stories about. The huge man who had led them to the boats was of course Hagrid. The fellow sitting on a stack of books must have been Professor Flitwick, the Charms professor. The younger man with dark, greasy hair and a scowl on his face was no doubt Professor Snape, who taught Potions and was the head of house for the Slytherins. In the center of the High Table in a large gold chair sat an old wizard with a flowing silver beard who could only be Albus Dumbledore. He was wearing purple robes polka-dotted with yellow ducks. 

The headmaster’s robe wasn’t the only garishly decorated item in the hall. The table in front of Ron was laid out with the finest flatware he had ever seen: golden goblets encrusted with gems, silver forks and knives, gold plates and platters, tureens and bowls shimmering with rubies and emeralds. He’d never seen so much wealth gathered together in one place. Despite the serving platters’ presence, there was no food to be seen. The shared meal with Harry on the Hogwarts Express seemed ages ago, and Ron could do with something to eat.

Albus Dumbledore stood, and gradually the Hall fell quiet. He smiled brightly at the students, holding his arms out wide in a welcoming gesture.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words.”

Ron grimaced. He hoped the speech wouldn’t take long. He was hungry!

“And here they are,” he announced. “Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

“Thank you!”

With that, the headmaster sat back down to raucous applause. Ron joined in as well, and was surprised to see that food had appeared on the golden dishes in front of him while he was distracted. An incredible feast awaited him. Roast goose, suckling pig, potted shrimps, baked potatoes, roasted brussels sprouts with chestnuts, peas, carrots, Yorkshire pudding, roast beef, fish and chips—just about every dish Ron could imagine was before him. 

Ron had never exactly gone hungry at home. Mom always made enough food for the family, but a boy with five older brothers will always find himself in fierce competition to get enough to eat, especially for his favorite dishes. Certainly he’d never been presented with a feast like this. Ron quickly piled his plate with his favorite dishes, but made sure to take a little bit of everything just to taste. He saw several of the other first-years doing the same. 

“It’s a pretty amazing spread, isn’t it?” the older girl across from him commented. “Nothing ever quite matches the opening feast. Not that our house-elf doesn’t try, mind you.”

Ron nodded, feeling his ears turn red at the mention of a house-elf, a luxury his family had never been able to afford. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“My name’s Ron Weasley, by the way,” he added. “Pleased to meet you. I’m a first-year!”

“I know,” she said. “I’m Phoebe Pucey. _Prefect_ Phoebe Pucey, as it happens.”

Phoebe turned to the black-haired first-year girl sitting next to Ron. “How about you? What’s your name?”

“My name’s Millicent Bulstrode,” she said in a quiet voice. “N-nice to meet you.”

Soon, all the other first-years had joined in the conversation, even Malfoy, who looked uncomfortable sitting next to a ghost covered in glowing-silver blood. The ghost’s eyes were empty and expressionless, with nothing behind them. Suddenly, he snapped his head around to stare directly at Ron, who tore his gaze away. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of those eyes meeting his. 

“I see you’ve met our ghost,” whispered Phoebe. “The Bloody Baron’s usually not in such a bad mood. Best not to draw his attention.”

“Easy for you to say,” muttered Malfoy, who had apparently overheard her. “You’re not sitting next to him!”

When everyone had eaten their fill, the leftover food faded away, leaving behind clean plates and serving dishes. Then, to Ron’s astonishment, the dessert appeared. Ice creams, tarts, pies, pastries, jellies, puddings—Hogwarts had everything!

Soon, the desserts were gone and Professor Dumbledore stood again.

“Just a few announcements now…”

Everyone’s eyes were on the headmaster, and Ron saw his opportunity. Carefully, he withdrew the pasty he’d filched during dinner from his robe pocket. Checking that Phoebe was looking away, he drew his arm back, and with precision earned from years of throwing balls of mud and snow, Ron threw the steak and vegetable pasty at the back of Malfoy’s head. As the pasty flew through the air, he snapped back around to look at Professor Dumbledore, a picture of innocence. 

“... And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third—”

“Ow!” cried Malfoy. He put a hand to the back of his head, and his eyes widened when it came away covered in grease and food. He stood up, his chair clattering back, and turned back toward the Slytherin table. “—the devil! Someone just hit me with—”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Mr. Malfoy, please contain any outbursts until the end of the announcements.”

Malfoy flushed as several hundred eyes turned towards him, and fell silent and sat down. Beautiful! It took every ounce of Ron’s self-control to not burst into laughter at that moment, having turned the tables on the bully.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death. And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” 

Dumbledore flicked his wand, conjuring words overhead. “Everyone pick their favorite tune,” he said, “and off we go!”

The cacophony of sound that followed could only charitably be called singing. Fred and George finished last, melodramatically drawing out the final lines. Ron smiled at the prank, but felt he’d done better than them at this feast. At last, they finished, and the school broke into applause. 

“Ah, music,” Dumbledore said. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

The Slytherin first-years followed Phoebe through the crowds of the Great Hall, down the great marble staircases that led out of the Hall, through several winding corridors, down another two sets of stone stairs, until at last they stopped in front of an unassuming patch of damp stone wall. Phoebe counted off the first-years before nodding.

“Alright, first-years, listen up. The entrance to the Slytherin common room is here. It moves around a little, but you can tell where it is if you look for these moss-covered bricks in the shape of an ‘S’ near the bottom of the third stairwell. Now to enter, you just walk up and say the password.”

“ _Superiority_ ,” she said. With a rumbling noise, a block of stone the size of a door slide aside, revealing a rectangular hole in the wall. They all walked through it and found themselves in the Slytherin common room, a high-ceilinged, hexagonal room full of armchairs and couches with windows. Ron spotted a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace between two tall, round windows letting in soothing green light from the Black Lake. 

Phoebe ushered the girls through one door into their dormitory and the boys into another. Theirs was the room closest to the common room in the boys’ hallway. They found their beds, six four-posters with green and silver curtains. Their trunks had already been brought down, one at the foot of each bed.

Feeling full and tired, Ron plopped down onto his bed, ready for a good night’s sleep. Just as he began to consider changing into his pajamas, Malfoy broke the restful peace. 

“Alright,” he growled, getting the attention of the other boys. “Who hit me with that pasty?”

Malfoy was furious. His pale face scrunched up in anger and his cheeks flushed red as he pointed his finger at each of the boys in turn. “I know Greg wouldn’t do it, and Vincent wouldn’t either. Zabini, you were on the other side of Phoebe from me. So it had to be either you,” he said, pointing at Ron, “or you,” he said, pointing at Theodore. He hadn’t managed to completely wipe the food off his hair, and as he swung around, some fell of his head and landed on his left shoulder, staining his robe.

Ron and Theodore exchanged looks. “It wasn’t me,” said Ron at the same time as Theodore said, “I didn’t do it.”

Malfoy’s face turned even redder, and Ron couldn’t help it. He started giggling uncontrollably.

“Don’t fool with me, Weasley!” shouted Malfoy. “It was you, wasn’t it? I knew it! Look at my hair: it’s ruined!”

“No—it’s not that, your hair’s just so slick with grease,” Ron choked out between laughs, “It—it looks the same to me... Pasty-Hair!”

That got a chuckle from Blaise, and Theo hid his smile behind his hand. Ron doubled over in laughter at the nickname he’d thought up.

“Pasty-Hair!” yelled Ron between laughs. “Pasty-Hair!”

Even Greg snorted. Malfoy rounded on him.

“Not you too, Greg!” he shouted, his voice going hoarse. “Don’t you dare!”

Greg quickly quieted down and turned back to his bed.

In the act of spinning to address his friend, Draco had splattered the curtains of his four-poster with grease and bits of pasty. A dark stain quickly formed, causing Blaise to burst into laughter as well. “Now you’ve got a bedspread to match!” shouted Ron victoriously. Malfoy turned back to address Ron, and saw the stain on his four-poster, then stopped. His eyes were red, and he stood there, looking at the stain for a moment. Then, he choked back a sob and ran out of the room in tears.

A sudden silence fell over the dormroom, and Ron exchanged glances with his housemates, all of them looking as guilty as he felt. “Wow, the bloke really can’t take a joke, can he?” he asked, trying to force a smile. Greg and Vincent ignored him. Theo nodded and closed his curtains. Blaise muttered in the affirmative before doing the same.

That night, Ron lay in bed, unable to sleep. He turned over the evening’s activities in his minds. It was a jolly prank, wasn’t it? Then why did it feel so bad? After what seemed like hours passed, he heard the door to the hallway open. Malfoy came back in and lay down. After a few moments, Ron couldn’t bear it any more. He had to say _something_.

“Hey, Malfoy?” whispered Ron. Malfoy didn’t respond, but Ron continued anyway. “I didn’t mean it that way, ok?” 

Malfoy grunted.

“...it was just a joke, mate,” said Ron.

“Sod off, Weasley,” Malfoy replied hoarsely. Had he been crying?

“Look, I… just don’t take it the wrong way, okay?”

There was no response.

In time, Ron fell asleep, and he dreamed of lazy afternoons and fun in the garden with his brothers and his sister, and of flying on brooms taken from the shed when Dad wasn’t looking, and running through the fields behind The Burrow in the summer. He dreamed of eating fresh-picked apples with Dad and rooting out garden gnomes with Percy, and all the things at home that he was missing now, his first night away from everything he ever knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, The Moon Potato!


End file.
